Praise Song for the Butterflies

by Bernice L. McFadden

Abeo blinked. “I don’t understand. I am Abeo Kata.”

  “No, you’re not. You are a Vinga.”

  Abeo looked at the picture again, closed the book, and turned it over in her hands. “I don’t understand, isn’t this an American passport?”

  Thema realized that she was going about things in the wrong order. She set the box on the bed and folded her hands in her lap. “Okay, here it is. Wasik and Ismae are not your parents—they are your aunt and uncle. Serafine is your mother—”

  The passport fell to the floor. “What is this you are telling me? Serafine is my mother?”

  “Yes. Serafine became pregnant while she was attending school in America. She was very young and it was decided that she would have you and bring you here to Ukemby to be raised by Ismae and Wasik.”

  Abeo stood and backed away from Thema. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It is done all the time.”

  Thema pointed at the passport. “Wasik gave it to me before he remarried. That and your birth certificate. He must have believed somewhere in his heart that one day someone would find you.”

  Abeo’s back touched the wall. “And did she know they were going to do what they did to me?”

  Thema shook her head. “Nobody knew. Not even Ismae. Wasik made that decision. When Serafine found out, she flew here to find you, but Wasik wouldn’t tell her where he’d taken you.” Thema rose from the bed, walked to Abeo, and placed her hands on the young woman’s heaving shoulders. “We all tried to find you. We all did.”

  “And . . . and does she know that I am here with you now?” Abeo blubbered.

  “No. I was being truthful before. We have not spoken for many years.”

  “Well, we have to tell her.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  New York City

  2003

  36

  Serafine had to pee again. It was ridiculous because she’d gone twice before leaving the house, and then again when she’d first arrived at the airport. She looked down at her watch; the flight was due to land in less than twenty minutes. She could wait, she told herself, and crossed her legs. Her bladder ballooned. No, no she couldn’t.

  Afterward she stood at the white sink washing her hands, with her heart fluttering about in her chest like a hummingbird. How many years had it been? Ten? Twelve? Serafine had lost count. Never mind the years, what about the lies?

  Serafine raised her eyes to the mirror. She’d gained quite a bit of weight. One very bad divorce, a pack-a-day smoking habit, a liter of vodka a week, a job she hated, a current husband she despised—all of that had taken its toll. The woman who gazed back at her was the end result of what seemed to be a cursed life.

  She combed her fingers through her brittle hair and made a sucking sound. Why oh why had she streaked her hair blond? It made her look like a clown, like a woman trying to hang onto a youth that had fled years earlier.

  Abeo would wonder what had happened to her glamorous, beautiful Aunt Serafine. Not aunt, Serafine quickly corrected herself—mother.

  It all seemed unreal to her, even though many months had passed since she’d received that first phone call, during the early-morning hours when the sky outside her window was still black. Serafine had reached for the receiver and braced herself. People only called at those hours when the news was bad. “Yes?” and a familiar voice called her name. Serafine said “Yes” again and waited.

  “Serafine, this is Thema.”

  Serafine’s anger returned and all of the old wounds sprang leaks.

  “Serafine? Serafine, are you there?”

  “Yes?” she responded icily.

  “Abeo is here with me,” Thema stated simply.

  Serafine had sat up in her queen-size bed and clicked on the lamp. “Do you think you’re funny? What kind of sick bitch are you, Thema? You waste your money to taunt me, just so you can hurt me . . . again?”

  “Hold on,” Thema said, and suddenly there was a new voice, a stranger’s voice, calling, “Auntie? Auntie Serafine? This is Abeo.”

  Serafine still hadn’t believed it. “Who is this? Why are you doing this?”

  “I promise you, Auntie, this is not a joke, it’s me. Abeo.”

  The voice sounded earnest, pleading, and bruised. Serafine gripped the phone with one hand, while the other thrashed through the nightstand drawer in search of her cigarettes.

  Serafine had long resigned herself to the very real possibility that Abeo was dead. Death was a finality she could deal with, because the idea that Abeo was alive and languishing somewhere in the bush—well, that was a notion that Serafine hadn’t been mentally equipped to handle.

  She slipped a cigarette between her lips, but her hand was trembling so badly that she couldn’t get it lit.

  The voice claiming to belong to Abeo said, “You remember one time you came to Ukemby on vacation and brought me a hamburger? A Big Mac, I think?”

  Serafine croaked, “Abeo?”

  “Yes, Auntie, it’s really me.”

  After that conversation, Serafine had walked around in a daze for weeks. When the first letter came, she stared long and hard at the Ukemban stamp before bringing the envelope to her nose and sniffing it. Even though it had traveled thousands of miles, the scent of Ukemby was still strong on the paper.

  The letter was written in the hand of a child; misspelled words were struck through and misspelled again. Abeo had included photographs of Thema (who had gained weight) and Joseph (who was balding). The one of Abeo stopped Serafine’s heart cold, because she looked exactly as Serafine had at that age.

  Now, in the arrivals hall at JFK Airport, Serafine elbowed herself through the crowd and stationed herself behind the metal barriers. Her breath caught in her throat each time the doors parted, releasing a swarm of travelers pushing carts piled high with boxes and suitcases that had been wrapped in so many layers of cellophane they resembled large cocoons.

  Serafine was gripping the metal barrier so hard that the blood drained from her fingers, turning her knuckles a ghostly white. The deluge of people trickled down to groups of two and three and still there was no sign of Abeo.

  A slow panic rose in Serafine.

  Suppose Abeo hadn’t made the flight? Wouldn’t Thema have called to tell her? Serafine pulled her cell phone from her purse. 5 MISSED CALLS flashed across the screen. She scrolled through the numbers but none of them belonged to Thema.

  The doors parted again and a little girl appeared, accompanied by a flight attendant. “Abeo?” Serafine whispered, confused. Of course that’s not Abeo, she laughed to herself. You’re losing your mind, Serafine.

  She so badly wanted a cigarette. A cigarette and a drink. She looked at her phone again and then at the wall of windows and was struck with the sudden urge to run, to escape out into the winter air and pretend she’d never received Thema’s call.

  Serafine was not ready to confront her past—nor was she ready to be confronted by it. The room warmed and spun. Her eyes twitched, the world went gray, and for a moment she thought she would pass out. She stumbled where she stood, bumping into a man with a kufi on his head.

  He planted a steady hand on the small of her back. “Miss, are you okay?”

  Serafine blinked at him. “Yes, yes. Excuse me, I just need some fresh air,” and she set off toward the glass doors. The red exit sign beckoned her like a lighthouse. Her footsteps quickened.

  Just feet from the doors, a little boy ran into her path. Serafine tried to sidestep him, but he locked his arms around her legs, giggling.

  Serafine looked wildly around for the boy’s parents as she tried to peel him from her. But he held fast and the two spun in circles like a pair of drunken marionettes.

  “Carl! Carl!” The little boy’s chunky mother came rushing toward them, lugging an infant in her arms. “Carl, let the nice lady go. Sorry, ma’am, he doesn’t mean any harm. Let go of the lady, Carl. Carl, let go!!”

  And then Serafine heard her name echo behind Carl’s mother. Her head spun and
there was Abeo, wearing a green cable-knit sweater, brown docksiders, and denim jeans. She looked younger than her years and was as effortlessly stunning as Serafine used to be.

  “Abeo?”

  Abeo ran toward her with her arms spread wide. “Oh, Auntie Serafine!” She plowed into Serafine and the two hugged and kissed each other’s wet cheeks.

  When they separated, Serafine’s lip trembled and the words that had been sitting at the top of her heart every moment since she’d received the phone call from Thema jumped out of her throat: “Do you hate me?”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  This wasn’t to say that Abeo didn’t struggle with the hate. After Thema had shared the ugly truth with her, hate had become a constant companion. It was Taylor who had saved her from being swallowed by it. She said, “Abeo, the weak can never forgive; forgiveness is an attribute of the strong. You know who said that, Abeo?”

  Of course she knew. It was on the wall of every classroom in Eden. “Mahatma Gandhi.”

  “Exactly! Are you weak, Abeo?”

  At one time she had thought she was weak, but Taylor told her that weak people didn’t survive all that Abeo had endured.

  “No, I’m strong!”

  In the parking lot, mother and daughter hoisted Abeo’s suitcase into the trunk of Serafine’s six-year-old Saab. Serafine was so nervous that she rolled the car right past the silver box that held a wide-eyed parking attendant. When she realized her error, she brought her foot down hard on the brake and the nose of the car softly bumped the wooden arm that blocked the exit.

  On the Belt Parkway, Serafine reached for the pack of cigarettes in the center console. She lowered the window, flooding the car with cold air, and Abeo’s teeth began to chatter.

  “Oh, sorry ’bout that.” Serafine fiddled with a button on the control panel until the inside of the car pulsed with heat. “So,” she started after she’d taken a few puffs of the cigarette, “how was the flight?”

  “It was . . .” Abeo searched her hands for the right words, “scary at first. Being up so high above the clouds. And then it was okay, but the turbulence—”

  Serafine’s cell phone rang. She plucked it from the cup holder and pressed it to her ear. For ten minutes she jabbered on about work and some woman she referred to as “that high-rolling bitch.” Abeo watched the road, waiting for Serafine to say something about her, something like, I just picked my daughter up from the airport. But she didn’t mention Abeo at all and simply ended the call with, “No, I don’t have any plans, I’m just going home to crash.”

  The silence enwrapped them. Serafine turned the radio on and lit another cigarette.

  The atmosphere was awkward. Thema had warned Abeo that it would be. It’s been so many years, she’d said. You’ll have to get to know one another again, and that will take time.

  Abeo stared out at the gray day. The trees were naked and the grass was a brittle brown carpet. New York was a stark contrast to the vibrantly colored world she’d departed just eleven hours earlier.

  Serafine tossed the cigarette butt out the window, turned the volume down on the radio, and casually announced, “Um, just so you know, Abeo, I haven’t told my husband that you are my . . . my . . .” The word daughter stuck in her throat like a pit and so Serafine avoided it altogether. “He thinks you’re my niece. There wasn’t enough time to explain all the details to him, but I will . . .”

  She’d had months to prepare her husband. Abeo felt the hurt creep across her heart.

  “Also, he doesn’t know about the other thing.”

  The slavery? Abeo so wanted to spit, but instead she muttered, “It’s okay, Auntie.” Even though it wasn’t.

  37

  The house was a cozy Cape Cod with a gray flagstone front. Two bedrooms, a study, living room, eat-in kitchen, and tiny dining room.

  Serafine took her into the study. “The couch pulls out into a bed. The mattress is a bit uncomfortable, but I’ll buy you a feather bed next week.” She sighed. “I would put you in a bedroom, but we only have two and I’m in one and, well . . . he sleeps in the other.”

  Serafine’s jaw tensed as she braced herself for a barrage of questions. But Abeo asked nothing.

  The front door opened and Serafine rolled her eyes. “That’s him now.”

  Abeo followed her into the kitchen where Ottley was standing over the counter flipping through the day’s mail.

  Serafine greeted him with a stiff, “Hey.”

  Ottley was tall, slender, and brown. When he turned and saw Abeo standing beside his wife, he smiled, revealing a row of crooked teeth.

  “Well hello, you must be Abeo.” He walked around Serafine and presented his hand.

  Abeo barely touched him. She was strong, yes, but her strength did nothing to waylay the distress she felt when she was around members of the opposite sex.

  Ottley slowly lowered his hand to his side. “I’m glad that you’re . . . um, here and reunited with Serafine.” He paused, then added, “I’m very sorry about your mother.”

  Abeo mumbled, “Thank you.”

  Ottley looked at Serafine. “So, shall we celebrate this reunion and maybe go out for a bite to eat?”

  Go out to dinner and pretend to be the happy all-American family? Serafine didn’t have the energy to play pretend. Their marriage was over; they were just waiting for the attorneys to sort through the grimy details of their pending divorce.

  “Maybe another time, Ottley. Abeo has already had a very full day. I think we’ll just order in.”

  Ottley looked relieved. “Whatever you say,” he grunted, then looked over to Abeo. “It was very nice to meet you.”

  Abeo nodded.

  “I have to get back to work, Serafine.” Ottley reached for his keys.

  “Yeah,” Serafine replied sarcastically, “work.”

  * * *

  Serafine dodged the inevitable by identifying the five dishes and the condiments from a local Chinese restaurant. Abeo listened and tried hard to look interested, but she couldn’t care less about soy sauce and chopsticks; she wanted to know who her father was and why Serafine had given her up. She’d heard Thema’s version, but she wanted the story directly from her mother’s mouth.

  At the kitchen table, Abeo picked over her food in between sips from a can of Pepsi. Serafine took two bites of her egg foo yong and then pushed it aside in favor of the tall etched glass filled with vodka and tonic.

  Abeo also set her food aside after a few bites. “Thank you, Auntie. It was very good.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Serafine coughed between pulls of her Marlboro. “I, um . . .” she mashed the tip of her cigarette into the ceramic ashtray, “I have something for you. Let me get it.” She went to her bedroom and returned with a photo album. The pages were filled with shots taken during her visits to Ukemby. “Do you remember this?” She pointed to a photograph of Abeo dressed in pink-and-purple culottes, posed with one hand on her hip. Didi stood smiling in the background.

  Abeo traced her finger over her glossy face. “I do.” Of course she remembered the photo; it was taken the summer before her life was snatched away from her. She flipped through pages stopping here and there to gaze at images that unearthed one happy memory after the next.

  “Oooh,” Serafine moaned when they were halfway through the album. “That,” she crooned slyly, “is Chipo Hama.”

  Abeo squinted at the image of the tall chocolate man with a sculpted Afro and dimpled chin. “Uhm, he lived down the street from us. I remember Mr. Hama.”

  Serafine leaned back in her chair. “Yes, Chipo had a major crush on me.” She giggled like a schoolgirl.

  The album held so many photos, and each one told a story. Flipping through it was like turning the pages of a history book.

  “It’s yours to keep.”

  Abeo’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

  Serafine grinned. The glow on her daughter’s face made her feel good. “Yes, of course.”

  But then Abeo
asked a question that Serafine was not expecting: “Do you have any photos of my father?”

  “What?”

  “What’s my father’s name?”

  “What?” Serafine bleated a second time. Flustered, she instinctively reached for her cigarettes. “Well, I—uhm . . .” she stammered, violently shaking the empty cigarette pack. “Damnit,” she muttered, crushing the pack and dropping it onto the table. “Well, you’re grown up now and I guess you have a right to know.” Serafine took a sip of her drink. “He was just some boy,” she lied. “A boy named . . .” She paused and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, pretending to sift through her memory. “Smith. Yes, Charles Smith.”

  “Charles Smith?” Abeo cooed. “Charles Smith . . . Abeo Smith.” She fused his fictional surname to her own. “Abeo Smith,” she uttered again.

  Serafine averted her eyes and took another sip of her drink.

  “Does he know about me?”

  The hopefulness in Abeo’s voice was a knife in Serafine’s back. She did not want to think about that time or that man. Why, she raged to herself, is Abeo forcing me back into the past? “No, no, he doesn’t,” she quipped, staring at her cuticles.

  The light went out of Abeo’s eyes and she slumped a little in her chair. “Did you love him?”

  Serafine sighed. “Love? I was a child. Much younger than you are now. What do children know of romantic love? I was just young and foolish.”

  “And that’s why you gave me to my mother, because you were so young?” Abeo questioned calmly. After being in the shrine for so many years, she didn’t believe that being young was a legitimate excuse for giving up one’s child. She’d known twelve-year-olds who gave birth and went on to rear and love their children under far-less-than-desirable circumstances.

  “It wasn’t my decision, Abeo. My parents decided for me. You can’t blame me for something I had no control over.” Serafine stood, walked to the sink, and peered out of the window. “If I could go back in time, I would change many things, but I can’t and neither can you. We just have to move forward and try to make the best of now.”